


a good and honest fool

by carrionqueen (nightquill), nightquill



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-04
Updated: 2013-05-04
Packaged: 2017-12-10 09:21:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/784431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightquill/pseuds/carrionqueen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightquill/pseuds/nightquill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>anora’s second wedding. no warnings. just fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a good and honest fool

_Duty._ That was what it was all about, wasn’t it? She was just a walking womb, an incubator for the Royal Heir. And it was her _duty_. She should be _proud_ to serve Ferelden in such a way. Women would die to be in her place. She twisted her hands into knots behind her back as she waited outside the hall, her dress a pure white lie.

Only virgins were supposed to wear white. She was not a virgin. She was a hand-me-down. She may as well have been a pair of boots her first husband had outgrown and passed on to his younger brother. It was all remarkably sick, she thought as she gathered her gown in her fingertips and the choir began to sing. It had been her suggestion but it wasn’t until the nerves set in that she’d realised all of her doubts. She’d marry another fool and of course, she’d have power – though a cold comfort that would be if Alistair was anything like her last husband.

The doors opened. The hall was draped in gold and red, their rampant lion banner hung at the back of the hall, resplendent and glorious and all of those words that left a bitter taste in the back of her throat. Honour. Glory. Duty. Her veil fluttered silently over her vision as her ladies in waiting fussed and plucked at her, walking either side of her down the aisle. Just another bitter reminder that her father was a dead man.

The place where he had died had been scrubbed clean of blood, the carpets hung in the sun to bleach before the servants had re-dyed them. No one would ever know. No one would remember, either; it was a nasty business, they said. Better forgotten, they said. But Anora would remember. She swallowed the bitterness and focused on the throne, on the altar before it, on the Revered Mother and on her husband-to-be.

He was dressed in gold, fine Orlesian silk, embroidered with copper wire and sashed with red. And he was smiling. It was bloody infectious. She was so intent on not enjoying this day that it surprised her when her lips curved into a small, private smile, and their eyes met. A golden king and his silver bride. She stood beside him with her posy of Amaranthine roses in her hands.

“There’s still time to run away,” he muttered as she reached him. Her smile turned into a muffled snort of laughter.

“And shame my _beloved King?_ I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Are you nervous?”

The choir was finishing their hymn and the Revered Mother took her place behind the altar. “Of course I am,” she whispered, looking away. The ceremony was beginning. Anora passed her small bouquet to her maid of honour, taking a moment to scan the hall with her eyes – the Warden was not present. She didn’t know if this made her feel better or worse.

The ceremony dragged. She watched Alistair fidget with his sash, and with the pendant he always wore about his neck. And with his hands. And with his ear. He was making her itch already but before she could hiss irritably at him, the Revered Mother recited the words and the both said their piece – _dutifully_. Alistair made a mistake. She was certain it was intentional. There was a glimmer in his eyes that told her so and it made her want to laugh – to throw back her head and really laugh, from the depths of her belly. Maker, she was right. He was a fool, but an honest one – a good one.

Then he kissed her and the ceremony was over. Her lips tingled where they had met, and after the applause and the excitement had died down and the papers had been signed – for once, Anora could sign for herself, with no father to act on her behalf - she set about finding her husband.

“You did that on purpose,” she accused with a smirk.

Alistair turned from his conversation with a grin. “Did what? Oh, yes – it’s the Maker’s hands that guide us, not his ham. Right. Sorry. Does that mean our marriage is null and void and I can run away to Tevinter now?”

She swatted at him. “You won’t be free of me so easily, _Husband_.”

He offered her his arm. She took it. It was… okay. She didn’t feel like a wretched pair of boots. She didn’t feel like she was garbed in lies. It was a wedding, her second wedding, familiar ground. It was okay.

**Author's Note:**

> sorry about the lame ending on this. i'm not good at wrapping things up heh.


End file.
